Tinseltown Tease

What happened?

2009-10-19T20:14:00.000-07:00

Right now I'm working on a post for Jewcy, this website about...wait for it!...Jews. Cause I'm one.

Anyway, I'm deep into it, it's all about porn and why there aren't more Jewish chicks who do it and whether that's a result of Jewish chicks being repressed or porn people not liking the Jewish aesthetic. So I'm pretty deep in it, and I have to admit that my mind is swimming in circles.

And then I realized -- what HAPPENED? Writing used to be fun. Writing about sex used to be fun. When, and WHY, did it get so serious? Do I even like writing serious, thoughtful articles about why the fuck organized religion is so repressive? Or do I kinda not care? I miss the days that I came home from work at 2:30 a.m., bruised and battered and yet all I wanted to do was explode all over my keyboard with the events of the evening. Somehow my writing has become distilled, stilted, not loving, not part of my body anymore but some chopped off, wooden, stiff part of my mind. I miss the days when my heart was involved.

Adventures in Dog-Walking

2009-10-15T17:01:00.000-07:00

Maybe this blog is becoming more about my odd jobs and less about my naked body.

I say this because recently, I've taken up dog-walking as a non-controversial way to make extra money. And unsurprisingly, it blows.

Today wasn't as bad as yesterday, when it rained all morning. It was sunny, I had a few dogs that I like (my favorite is a 3-pound Yorkie who only needs to walk about 2 blocks), and I didn't have to be anywhere until 11. But I did have five pugs in a row, and let me tell you, pugs are way less cool than they look.

My first pugs of the day, G and E, are gentle little creatures. They're about six years old, and very sweet, but E absolutely hates to walk. So I have 1/2 hour with them, and there I am, dodging a dump truck the entire way up Queens Road in the Hollywood Hills, trying my best to ensure that they don't get run over, and all the while trying to get this little beefeater to move.

"Come on, E!" I gently cajole. She digs her heels in and puts her head down. "Come on, E!" I say again, getting stern. She does the same. With my next tug, I pull her collar off by accident.

Aha. Now we're at a standoff. She knows she has me by the balls, because if she runs she will likely die, and that will be my fault. I try to anticipate her next move. Will it be to the right? The left? A fakeout? Will she just turn around and head for home with everything she's got? She stares me down. The next thing I know, I dive for her, grab her by the plentiful scruff of her neck, and slip the thing over her head. Crisis averted, but now I'm on alert.

Pugs 3 and 4 are assholes. Really, I hate these dogs. B and O. Fitting.

I have witnessed these two little shitheads frighten schoolchildren repeatedly, and when I try to feed them treats at the end of their walk (against my will), they bite me. Basically, they can go fuck themselves, as far as I'm concerned. Also, they make the most disgusting noises, far beyond the typical mouth-breathing snorts of your average pug. They whinny, almost, like someone is slowly but surely strangling them.

I think part of the reason I hate them so much is because their owners are bastards, and their apartment is really messy. Something about it rubs me the wrong way. Also, my boss told me that one of them went through a phase where he only bought orange shit. Is it jsut me, or is that really annoying?

Anyweay, B and O sucked balls per usual today, taking their time crossing the street as if daring me to let them die, and eating berries at every turn that apparently make them puke. Full disclosure: sometimes, I cut their walks short. I did it again today.

Pug 5 is cool, but he is the biggest fatass of the bunch. This guy hates a walk more than anything. Our 1/2 hour takes us, literally, up the street and back. Today was no different, with the added bonus of the piece of dog shit that hung from his asshole by a hair (yes) that he tried to roll around in before I had to glove my hand and pull it off.

And that was my day! That's my new life. For now. No more laps, no more stages. We'll see how long I last.

Queers to the Rescue!

2009-09-08T20:40:00.000-07:00

So, how was everyone else's Labor Day? I hope it was pleasant. Oh, how was mine, you ask? Thank you so much for your inquiry. I'd love to oblige with an answer.

Mine made me want to slowly gouge my eyeballs out with a hot poker and roast them over a bonfire.

Too far?

I think not. My boyfriend has a group of friends that I'll call the collossal bores. They're friendly enough, but they are the kind of straight-laced, conservative white folk who one goes to great lengths to avoid telling that one used to be a stripper. Know what I mean? They live in the Valley, are in their early thirties, have sensible bank accounts and mortgages, don't talk politics or religion, and are settling in to Life with a Family, just like they're Supposed to Do.

Every Labor Day weekend, this group of friends goes out of town together, and this weekend was no different. Since "we're" friends with them, this weekend found me up in a ranch by Tahoe (but not in Tahoe, no, that would be far too pleasant for me), sans cell phone reception, and surrounded, horrifically, by small children, daytime activities, a profound and shocking lack of curse words, and adults whose lives have swiftly come to an end, marked by plastic pickup trucks and sippy cups.

For the first few hours of the trip, I held on to the hope that maybe we could still get blasted throughout the course of the day. We had come prepared with tequila, whiskey, wine and beer. But the most anyone drank from noon till nine (bedtime!) was one or two light beers.

It didn't take long for myself and the other childless female in the group (perish the thought!) to resign ourselves to sitting sulkily sitting by the pool, having nothing to do as the the big gender divide descended over the house like a storm cloud over a midwest sky. That's right: the women tended to the babies in the kitchen, and the men threw the football over the pool outside.

I shit you not.

And so -- call it intellectual subversity, a cry for help, a blessed escape -- as the other childless female sat next to me flipping through bridal magazines (oh, did I leave that out?????????), apparently anxious to join the ranks, I sat reading about queer San Francisco courtesy of Valencia, by Michelle Tea.

I literally did that all weekend. Through every lunchtime, every nap time, every fucking hike and trip into town and board game, I injected Michelle directly into my veins for the most immediate and effective high. As glossy-eyed moms called over the banister to their husbands that lunch was ready, smiling as though they had inhaled massive mushroom clouds of valium, I watched Michelle fist a tattooed girl who held a knife to her nipples.

Anyway, we're back now, and I survived. But you know what? Parenthood -- at least this version of it -- kills me a little on the inside. I just hated it. I hated every waking minute of plastic toys and white bread and deli meat and talking nicely and bedtimes. I hated the dads in the game room trying to act like they didn't have kids. I hated the undercurrent of resentment mixed with smug contentment that ran between the moms and everyone else. I hated that so many subjects were taboo, that I'd never be able to tell them who I am, that I had to lie and act like I wanted to play games with their kids when frankly, I wanted to get back to my book and to Michelle's glorious lube-covered fingers.

And I don't hate kids. I think kids are swell. I just hate the loss of fun that so many adults feel like they have to take on when they have them. Adult shit is fun, people. That's why we have strippers. :)

Curse you, Stripper Blogs!

2009-08-23T19:25:00.001-07:00

You're so distracting!! All I'm trying to do is get a little work done, and yet all I can seem to pull off is checking each and every one of your posts, mulling it over, and then coming here and writing my own. I'm not even stripping anymore and I'm distracted by it.

Two Camps for Sex Workers?

2009-08-17T20:53:00.000-07:00

So, I recently wrote an article for the supercool website Girl With Pen. It was just a light-hearted little ditty, about some of the more common types of strip club customers out there.

In response, I got exactly one comment. That comment was from a dissenter (surprise surprise), and that dissenter essentially accused me of giving our profession a bad name (that's a quote) and of disrespecting customers (that's a paraphrase).

Anyway, it made me wonder whether in fact there are two camps of sex workers -- those that get to know customers and deal with them more compassionately, and those that treat the entire thing more like a business. I would love to know what you all think! So, if you have a little time to kill, go over there and check out the back and forth. Weigh in, if you feel so inclined. Call me an idiot. Call me a genius (I'll understand).

But seriously....I am curious as to who falls where on this debate.

My Worst Fear, Realized.

2009-08-09T18:59:00.001-07:00

All my sex worker friends

2009-07-20T12:07:00.000-07:00

Ah, blog commenters.

Recently, I wrote a post at this other blog I write for about Erotica LA, which was back in June. In case you've never heard of it, Erotica LA is a convention where all things adult can come together and be as one. Porn stars, adult film companies, folks who sell stripper poles and clothes, all kinds of exotic whathaveyou. And of course, the convention is Ground Zero for porn fans and strip club afficianados.

So, picture it (or just go look at it). My post consisted of pictures "from the woman's point of view," since that's the way I was (unfortunately) tasked with covering it, and so I put up the real woman's point of view: pictures of the ogling dudes and the cameras they came in with.

Well, no sooner do I post it than I get the inevitable comment about the event: "it was kind of sad and creepy."

Aaaaaahhhhhhhh. Peeeeet Peeeeeeeeve!!!! Because really, ladies? We all know what "sad and creepy" means in this context, right? "Sad and creepy" means, so sad for the women who have to resort to this, because it's so creepy to have these kinds of men ogle you. It always comes from someone who doesn't work in the sex world, and it's always accompanied with a disdainful snort. So I shot back with something about how I didn't appreciate the comment, and that maybe it was her problem, not the people working the convention.

I left myself wide open for it, I guess, but still, I have to admit that I didn't see it coming. hidsight is always 20/20. Her response: "people I know who have worked in porn or strip clubs say you kind of get desensitized to it."

Riiiiiiight. People you know who have worked there. Kind of like my black and gay friends. I'm inclusive, too! I don't judge either! I have FRIENDS who have worked there. Way to pull out the trump card.

Unfortuantely, though, instead of trumping her myself with "well, as a former person who worked in a strip club..." I just let it go. Partly because the old who-has-more-first-person-insight one-upping game really grinds my gears and I find it impossible to engage in without coming across as a total douchebag, but also, honestly, partly because I didn't really want to out myself. So what I'm wondering is, when is the right time, and what is the right way? As I've said before, there doesn't ever seem to be a good moment to say, "I'm a stripper." Or even, "I was a stripper." So in trying to mesh my two worlds, what I find myself doing instead is tiptoeing around the issue -- alluding to the Big Secret, without ever actually shooting it squarely in the heart.

Deadly Boredom Sets In

2009-07-15T16:17:00.001-07:00

Ugh, people - I think I'm going crazy. My last job ended and now I'm back to nothing to do...working on some writing, albeit from home, and every time a fly goes by I think I'm gonna lose my mind.

I've thought about volunteering, haven't gotten myself psyched up to do it. Feel like I've run the gamut of things I could possibly do and none of it sounds exciting.

Anyone have suggestions?

TV Land

2009-06-23T00:07:00.000-07:00

So, if you read my last post you now know that I'm on hiatus from shaking dis ass. And while - as any honest dancer knows - that doesn't mean I'll never go back, it does mean that for now, I needed to find a new gig.

Anyway, I started working, appropriately still for the title of this blog, for a TV show. I got the job through my man, the very same who discouraged me from getting the gi out not long ago (say what you will). And you know what? This job is fucking awesome. I sit around and watch footage of people "being real" (I can say no more, lest I get sued for far more than I'm worth), cut what I think is interesting, and send it along it's way. And I get to wear jeans, and I get paid a pretty decent amount of money.

Does it beat dancing? I mean, I guess so, in that I can tell my parents that I'm doing it and they don't cry. Also, I don't have to work at night, which means that I can actually have relationships with people who come outside by day, like roosters instead of vampires (read: everyone).

It will be over shortly, of course, and then I'll have to go back to fucking around the house 24/7, but in the meantime I'm enjoying the semblance of doing something relevant here in the land of Milk and money.

Spinning Tales in Public

2009-06-04T10:18:00.001-07:00

I did a reading a few weeks ago at a local erotica series called In the Flesh. Check out my review...yeah, that Jessica person is me.

???

2009-05-25T11:58:00.000-07:00

Hmmm. Well - I'm not sure where to go from here. I haven't posted in a while because I've been writing at a few other places, thinking about going back to school, and moving.

I have not been dancing. I haven't been dancing, and I feel like a traitor, and a little bit not like myself, and like maybe I should change the name or domain of this blog or something. Like maybe I'm being dishonest if I continue to post here.

Also, I stopped dancing for mainly one reason. My relationship. I danced a few shifts at a nude club and it almost tore it apart. Apparently it's the pussy - as usual - that sends everything into an uproar.

I could go on now about how I blame my relationship for shit that's happening in my life, how I probably was sick of dancing anyway, how I might only have made it a few more shifts before I once again remembered how mind-numbingly boring it is to sit and have the same fucking conversation over and over again, all while scheming the lap-dance close with the 90% of your brain that you're not using to make small talk. Or how tired I am of the outlandish and absurd amount of competition and jealousy spawned in the petri dish of club life, carried over to regular life, all because once the novelty has worn off, there's just nothing else to think about besides money, and who's making more of it.

So, yeah. Maybe there was some other shit that didn't have to do with him, and again, per usual, I'm dropping the blame in the wrong place. But the fighting and near-break up, to be fair, didn't make it any easier to see where blame should appropriately fall.

Also, by the way, this is like the third post that I've tentatively titled using only question marks.

What does it all mean??

Sweet, an Award!

2009-03-23T17:25:00.000-07:00

This is exciting. I'm not gonna lie, I've always wanted to get one of these awards. Too much information? Is that a dislikable quality? Are we not supposed to want awards? Oh well, fuck it. I do. So I'm excited.

The lovely Sakura nominated me for a Lemonade Award! Unfortunately she also nominated a few people who I would have given the award to (that's you, Honey), so I guess my list will be on the short side. That, and stripper blogs seem to be closing down at an alarming rate...

Nevertheless:

1. Thank the person who was so thoughtful for giving you this award by linking their blog to this post.
2. Put the logo on your blog or post.
3. Nominate 10 blogs which show great attitude/gratitude.
4. Link your nominees to your post.
5. Comment them to tell them about the award they've won!

Casey's Dancer Diary: loveyouloveyouloveyou

i_muse: Brutally honest in the best way

Lauri Shaw: Publishing a book, piece by piece. Fucking awesome.

Grace Undressed: Awesome blog, awesome writing.

Boomtown Boudoir: Well. I just went to link to this and found a post about one of my most favorite authors, Anais Nin. Glorious.

So maybe this award is good for more than my base, shameful award-desiring tendencies. It's getting me out of my stripperblogger shy shell to say hello to a few people whose blogs I read but have never had the balls to really make contact with. That's you, Grace and Boomtown. So hello, friends.

Curiousity almost broke the stripper's knees

2009-02-10T20:44:00.000-08:00

I was waiting in a long hallway for the manager to get my paperwork ready when I noticed it - a dark, deserted room to my left.

The sign on it's door read: ONLY SIX GIRLS ALLOWED AT ONCE! NO EXCEPTIONS!!

At first I was just curious. I poked my head in and tried to get a look inside, but it was pitch black. I continued waiting, rocking back and forth on my heels.

After a minute, I looked in again. But still, my eyes still hadn't adjusted to the dark and I could see nothing. It was probably just an empty room. Unless...

Some of these fancy clubs, I'd heard, had leisure amenities for the ladies - things like spas and hot tubs. What if this was it?? What if I was standing right outside a free spa?

Now I needed to find out. I reached around and felt the wall for a light switch. Nothing. I checked the wall outside - also nothing.

Well, I'll just go ahead and walk in. I'm sure I'll be able to see once I'm in there.

"I'm sure I'll be able to see once I'm in there." Let these be words of warning to you all.

I took a step forward, into the darkness. And then next thing I knew, I was flying through the air as if launched - one stair, two stairs, three stairs...my knee scraped along one of them. Carpet. And then finally, blessed concrete.

I stayed there for a moment considering the facts. This might not be a spa, after all. I did not sense that blood had been spilled, but I did feel a sharp pain in my knee. No one had seen me - that silver lining was certain. And all I could hope for, as I quietly gathered myself together and then broke into a stiletto-based run to get away from the room, was that no one had heard, either.

Cause I landed pretty hard.

You sick fucks

2009-02-10T01:22:00.000-08:00

Everyone's heard by now that Roberta Busby, a woman in Tarzana, CA was set on fire as she walked out of her workplace, Babes and Beer.

The suspects were caught today.

I had never heard of the place she worked until the day before it happened. I heard about it again at my new club, where she worked up until two weeks before the attack. My new colleagues apparently knew the perpetrators.

Newspapers and websites have, predictably, eaten this up because it gives them the opportunity to use the word "stripper" in a headline. Never mind that she is a woman, a mother. Maybe "Mother set on fire" wouldn't be quite so tantalizing?

But what pisses me off more is that this incident is leading to the most useless, jerk-off line of questioning about sex work. Not "What can we do to make it safer?" which might be a question that would actually lead to productive action, but "Is it inherently unsafe?" And then: scratch ass, do nothing, think about naked chicks, jerk off and go to bed.

When a disgruntled employee walks into an office building and shoots it up, where are the stories about whether or not being an office drone is dangerous? This didn't happen because she is a stripper. This happened because two sick fucks did something sick and fucked up. Stripping might be unsafe for other reasons, but linking sex work to the actions of two deranged individuals is (while convenient for selling papers) nothing more than shoddy, irresponsible journalism.

However. That doesn't mean that this isn't reason to re-examine safety around strip clubs - but again, I haven't read anything about that, anywhere. Why wasn't she walked to her car? Why wasn't there better security? Why are strip clubs located in areas that allow people to chill out with containers of gasoline, lying in wait? This attack should be a reason, like any other workplace violence, to re-examine what is being done to make the workplace safer.

If anyone actually gave a shit, and actually didn't want to see this happen again, maybe we could talk about real protection for sex workers.

But, alas, we won't. Will we? Fucking useless.

My prayers and thoughts are with her, and I hope yours are too. She is still in critical condition.

Why is it so hard to stop?

2009-02-09T18:02:00.000-08:00

I found a new place. Driving home from it, I realized...

I am done.

And at the same time, I'm so, so not done. I'm on the schedule for tonight, because of course I had to give them my next shift, and so I'm back to where I've been so many times before: avoidance via reality TV. Hoping the clock never turns to 7 p.m. so I don't have to make a decision. Still in my pajamas, waiting for a phone call that asks me where I am, and hoping that I haven't made some horrible mistake that can't be undone - or that will mean I have to go back, audition again, and again decide that I'm over it.

Following the rejection of the spherical manager...

2009-02-05T11:19:00.000-08:00

The second place was impossible. I drove up through the Valley, up, up and away. Past the boutique shops, then the dollar stores, and finally, the warehouses. The barbed wire fences. The utter desolation and depression.

I love how they push us as far out of the way as possible, shoving us out by the railroad tracks and the piles of dug up dirt. Like maybe if we're so removed from civilized society, away from the nice, normal housewives shopping for their 2.5 children, the seedy desires of suburban husbands will somehow evaporate. Out of sight, out of mind.

Sadly, I don't know of any man whose desires can be pushed far enough away from residential neighborhoods that they are simply forgotten. In fact, I wonder if our distance makes them want us more. Do our locations in the nastiest, most dangerous parts of town add to our appeal? If we were in the building next to little Johnny's elementary school, would we be too accessible? Maybe those angry citizen groups are doing us a favor!

But I didn't go in, anyway. It was too much. The parking lot was fenced in, with three rows of barbed wire on top of it. Across the street was an abandoned warehouse. And supposedly, this was one of the nicer places. I parked my car and sat there for a minute, my hand resting on the door handle. I should just go in, fuck it...

But for the first time in a while, I heeded the little tiny voice that sometimes tells me what to do, and that I almost always ignore. I'd never come back here at night. Something (something...) about this place is not good.

And I shut the door and drove away.

Addendum: I'd just like to add this. The more I thought about this place as I drove home, the more I wanted to give a big fat FUCK YOU to the people who have a hand in passing laws that prohibit strip clubs from being anywhere even remotely decent, or safe. You haven’t outlawed stripping, you haven’t made your husband’s desire (or your own desire, you repressed fuck) to see naked chicks go away, and you haven't - nor will you ever - rid the world of what your uptight, rigid morality deems unacceptable. All you've done is make my life much more dangerous than it needs to be. I hope you're happy about that.

"Tone it Up"

2009-02-04T11:57:00.000-08:00

So I was going to take a little break, and then this really crazy thing happened - my rent was due! I know, it's so weird. So on, like, January 31st, I was like, oh fuck! I better find some way to pay for this shithole studio I spend about one day a month in (thanks to my bf for letting me crash at his place the other 29-30 days). Hmmm...what can I do....what kind of talents do I have that will allow me to make a whole bunch of money very quickly?

New club this time. Downtown. I went in coifed and made up at 2:00 p.m. No time to fuck around.

The bouncer directed me up a set of stairs to the dressing room. I made haste, waved cordially to the manager on my way back down the stairs, and greeted the DJ. First song topless, second song naked.

I've never actually danced fully naked, by the way. I've been a titties and bikini kind of gal thus far, thanks in no small part to the crippling laws surrounding Los Angeles strip clubs.

So, song one, tits out. Song two; my bottoms came off and all I felt was a cool breeze on my outer (and, briefly, inner) labia. Nothing different but the wind.

Anyway, I thought I did a nice little number. I worked in a few pole tricks (never putting my lady parts on the pole though, I don't know, that grosses me out), I moved slow, the guy sitting at the stage tipped me. Wonderful. I walked off the stage butt-ass, stepped into my bottoms on the stairs and checked in with the very chubby DJ.

"Go get dressed and then wait for the manager."

Alllll right.

"Go get dressed" is never something a stripper wants to be told.

For a second I tried talking him out of making me get dressed, but DJ's don't like to do the manager's dirty work, so finally I gave it up and did the Walk of Shame up to the dressing room. I tried to avoid eye contact with the skinny Milf who was up there getting ready, trying not to note in what ways she was hotter than me or in which particular areas I did not measure up to her.

Dressed, packed, walked back down.

Then, the manager showed. The man was a sphere. A perfect sphere. A sphere with a moustache, to be exact. He was short and round, like that chick from Willy Wonka who turns into a fucking blueberry. Had I knocked him over and kicked him in the side, his fat ass would have rolled out the door. And here's what this motherfucker tells me:

"Right now, I'm pretty full, so I probably won't be hiring for another few months (OUCH!!!AND YOU DON'T FUCKING HAVE TO LIE, YOU ASSHOLE). So, I had the chance to watch your first song from my office. You move well, but you need to...you know...tone it up."

Oh my fucking god.

Me: "Tone it...tone what up? My body??"

"Yeah. So you know, if you want to work on that (I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU, I'M NOT WORKING ON SHIT SO THAT I MIGHT HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO COME BACK AND HOPE THAT YOU APPROVE OF THIS ASS AT A LATER DATE) and then come back in a few months, maybe we can see then."

First of all, are you fucking kidding me?? Come back in a few MONTHS? Asshole, my rent is due TOMORROW. If I'm going to be building up job skills over the course of several MONTHS, it is not going to be so that I can try to get hired at another strip club. Been there. Done and done. I can go get hired elsewhere, thankyouverymuch. And furthermore, you know, screw you and stuff, for being mean.

Walk of Shame, the sequel, out to the parking lot. At this point, my confidence is more than bruised. What am I going to do - go to the fat chick's club now? The place where they take the rejects? The home for ugly strippers?

Couldn't he have just told me they were full and sent me on my chubby way?

The good news is that I didn't let the Sphere's comment throw me into a complete and total downward spiral of self-hatred, which I would have at other points in my life. I think that speaks to my maturity, my sense of self. But it has prevented me from auditioning anywhere else for the past few days. All I can think of is what I might have looked like - a flabby sac of meat flipping around a pole? Teetering on heels? Quaking and jiggling with every step that I thought was seductive?

OK, maybe I'm in a little more of a spiral than I thought. But believe me - I'm still EATING, and that speaks to my sanity.

And yes, I will go audition elsewhere. Just maybe not today.

Oh, great.

2009-01-12T10:01:00.000-08:00

Well, I guess it ended before it began:

Misbehaving teens may be at risk for major adulthood problems

Remember that time that you spent an entire semester dreaming about fucking Luke Perry instead of learning right isosceles triangles? You're an alcoholic! Or that time when youwere 13 that you skipped school, graffiti-ed the bathroom, and then got a spine-chilling phone call from the police, pretended your mom wasn't home and then blared Metallica to drown out the whole incident? Yup - I know. I thought it was all just fun and games, too.

Anyway, I wish someone had TOLD me that I was setting myself up for a lifetime of misery. I mean, I thought those pesky adults were just being neurotic.

About that place in the valley (shudder...)

2009-01-09T19:01:00.001-08:00

I never went back. I worked a grand total of three shifts. I spent my last shift posted up by the second stage, surly and cross-legged. I made one last, choking, sputtering attempt to talk to one of the pretzel-spitting misogynists at the bar, and it went a little something like this:

Me (leaning over from prime seat next to stage 2): Hey, how's it going?

Him: Good. You look nice.

Me: Oh, thanks.

Him: You're kind of quiet, huh?

Me: Well, I don't really know anyone here. (The place was populated exclusively by regulars.)

Him: Yeah, but you're not really talking to anyone to get to know them.

Me: Yeah...

End of conversation. I half-assed rolled my eyes and then turned back to the stage. Fuck that. I'm tired of people telling me I need to smile, or be nicer, or make more of an effort. I don't have any effort left in me to talk to uninteresting, vile people, and I'm sick of pretending that every idiot who walks into the place spits gold when he speaks.

I left early that shift, which is always exciting. But I left pretty fucking tore up. There had only been three girls working, which meant that I went onstage every fifteen minutes or so, for THREE SONGS AT A TIME. For five hours straight. So, picture it: My dogs were barking, my hair had long since gone from prettily curled to smashed in on one side and held in place by sweat. I stank. I was tired. My knees were a wreck, I had somehow cut my stomach while writhing on the poorly-maintained stage, I had a splinter in my pointer finger. In short, I was a hot mess.

I yanked my bag out of the overhead locker, letting it fall onto the shelf below. I ripped off my bikini, got dressed (slowly, painfully), splashed some water on my face and wiped the blood from my stomach. I paid the house.

"See you Monday," said the manager.

"Yeah, see you then."

I walked out into the sunlight. It was about 5:00 p.m. and I had to go to LAX to pick up my boyfriend. I knew then that I wasn't going back.

Fuck yeah

2009-01-04T11:15:00.000-08:00

The test was grueling. Three hours long, starting at 8:00 in the morning.

Let's bear in mind that I haven't seen the light of day before 9:30 am in about six months. But I did it -- I woke the fuck up at 6:30 so that I could have a leisurely breakfast and coffee like a normal person, instead of leaving myself 15 minutes to take a shower and drive like a bat out of hell to get to the test center in time, which is my instinct.

I wasn't nervous at all until I set foot in the test center. It was sterile, and the waiting room looked like that of a dentist's office. I wasn't allowed to keep any of my personal belongings with me, including my sweater, so I felt like a naked little fawn, trembling and yawning uncontrollably as I waited for my name to be called to begin.

The first section was kind of a warm-up -- essay writing. But the second two sections, quantitative and verbal, were kind of like slowly driving burning stakes through each of my eyes. I sat staring at questions, knowing that the answer was simply not within my grasp, for ten minutes at a time. With each question I couldn't anwer, I became more and more certain that I was ruining my future, that I had now officially become a complete fuck-up by not studying hard enough. Fortunately, I was so focused that I didn't have time to worry too much about the impending irreparable damager I was doing to my life.

About two hours into it, the guy sitting next to me -- who had almost not been allowed into the test because of some problem with his I.D. -- apparently became just as agitated as I did. As I struggled with antonyms, he began tapping his pencil on his desk. In a room where there is no other noise, the tapping of a pencil is like Chinese water torture. I lightly tapped on our shared cubicle wall, so as to kindly remind him that there were other people taking the test. He stopped for a second, then began again. Just as I had mustered enough righteous indignation to lean around and Say Something, he stopped again.

Thank God. But not ten minutes later, this asshole calls over the proctor, and in the middle of the complete and utter silence, begins a conversation with her in full voice. I waited, and waited, for him to realize the error of his ways. He didn't. Kept talking. Finally, I leaned around my desk and stage-whispered, "Stop talking over there! Jesus!"

Anyway, by the time I was done with the test, I was over it. I had completely fucked it all up, clearly, and was going to fail and never get into graduate school and therefore never have a shot at any career that doesn't involve being naked. That's cool...I mean, I can handle stripping forever (i.e., until age 40). But sweet jesus, praise be...at the end of the test, I hit "receive scores," and what do you know - I got a high enough score to get into the schools I'm applying to.

Unprecedented joy, followed by the burning desire to get the fuck out of that place as quickly as humanly possible. I grabbed my shit and ran out the door. I wanted to go home, celebrate, and never fucking think about fractions or algebra again.

a stripper studies

2009-01-01T14:36:00.000-08:00

For the past three days, I've been studying like a madwoman for the GRE's. The first practice test that I took indicated that my intelligence level would barely have saved me from being forcefully sterilized in the early 1900's. Promising. The second practice test was a little bit better, which gives me great hope that when I take the test TOMORROW, I'll fare well enough to get into schools that regularly struggle with their accreditation.

OK, OK, that's an exaggeration. But still, this thing tests concepts that I haven't seen in well over 10 years (enough said). I have a running list of concepts that I need to go over, like fractions, exponents, factoring, etc., and I associate almost all of them with sitting in a crowded middle school classroom and drawing on my jeans as Mr. G stood at the front of the room writing on the board and cracking nerdy math jokes.

That was around the time that I was completely checked out of school. In fact, I think it was in that very math class that my friend C. pierced my ears with a safety pin. Multiplying fractions = bloody earlobe. I still did pretty well in math, enough to save me from having to retake it the following year. Anyway, don't you remember that some straight-shooting adults always told you that you'd never use math in the eral world? Which is true, but what they don't tell you is that all that time is completely, utterly wasted becuase not only will you not use the concepts, you'll actually forget them altogether. Your seive-like mind will not retain them in favor of grown-up concerns like, should I drink in Hollywood or Santa Monica tonight?

Anwyay, enough time on this. I have to study. Wish me luck tomorrow!

Loud obnoxious drunk guys

2008-12-10T20:34:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I know what you're thinking - what is this, a post about every single day of work? And I can see where you might get that from the title. But there are some loud obnoxious drunk guys who really, miraculously, lower the bar. Like for instance, ones who are drunk by 4:00 p.m. on a Monday. Or who throw things at female bartenders and laugh when the girl has to pick it up five times in a row. Or - and this will have to take the cake here - ones who yell, loudly, while you're onstage, "When are the hot girls going to get here??"

To my credit (I guess), he was yelling it into the ear of another girl, who had been patiently sitting through his drunken douchebaggery for hours. And he followed it by laughing the kind of laugh that only a guy drunk at 4:00 p.m. can laugh, the kind where everyone for blocks can hear him, and you can practically taste the little bits of bar pretzel he spits at anybody within a five-foot radius.

The Toilet

2008-12-05T12:06:00.000-08:00

Maybe I didn't make this clear enough in my last post.*

The dressing room to the new club is guarded by a black door with the word "Kittens" painted on it in Disney-style writing. It gives the impression that inside this room, we magically become little playthings that are distracted for hours on end by balls of yarn so that you can stare, uninterrupted, at our breasts.

If I had taken an extra step or two forwards after pushing open said door, I would have bashed my hip on the ceramic sink strategically placed directly in front of the entrance.

After walking back through a room no larger than your average storage closet, I enter the area where the lockers are, and I then place my personal items on the only shelf space in there: a toilet.

Just to be clear: the toilet isn't somewhere off to the side, it isn't hidden by a curtain. No. The toilet is front and center, proud and white. There is no doubt that the room we are supposedly using to muster the sexy was once, in it's heyday, a stall. A handicapped stall, maybe, but a stall nonetheless. I just find this fascinating. Why not take the toilet out? Would that be so hard? Why not give us ladies the feeling - right before we set foot on the floor to make our millions - that we are somewhere a little more sensual than a crapper? I just don't feel as though it sets the proper tone. I can't get over it.

*Or maybe I'm just so enthralled with the concept that I decided one sentence in one post didn't do it justice...

"If You're not Sucking my Pussy..."

2008-12-02T19:09:00.000-08:00

This new club is amazing. For those of you who lost sleep over whether or not I'd get put on the schedule, per my last post, you may set the Ambien aside - I did. In fact, the manager called me the very next day to find out if I could cover for a few girls who called out sick. I almost said no because I had to pick my man piece up at the airport that night, but when I started to say I was too busy, this guy actually said to me, "oh...party foul." I mean, who can turn that down?

I only worked for three hours my first shift. The place is a fucking D to the I to the V to the E. No DJ, to begin with. Just a jukebox, which is sort of cool for the kitsch factor, I guess, but it stops being quite so cool a few sets in when you realize you've played all five of the good songs already. I did have the opportunity to dance to Warrant's "Cherry Pie," though, thanks to that jukebox, which I think the 13-year-old me would have been particularly proud of.

It's also the kind of club that keeps the lights on during the day, the better to use the pool tables and dart boards. The carpet is green, the ceiling to the stage is so low that you very seriously risk your life if you attempt a pole trick, and - the piece de resistance - there's a toilet smack in the middle of the dressing room. Just right out there, just a toilet right in the fucking middle of the room. I have no idea if it functions or not.

Anyway, an hour or so before I was going to leave, this girl comes in to start her shift. She's got short, bobbed hair and tattoos all over. She comes in yelling, screaming across the room to girls and to the five customers sitting at the bar who I assume were all regulars. After she gets dressed and does her first stage set, she walks back over to the bar.

"Hi Mike!" She's talking to one of the five guys, all dressed in work t-shirts, drinking beers and looking like they've spent the past twenty years of their lives standing outside in the California sunshine and have never bothered with something as bougie as SPF.

Mike mumbles something to her drunkenly, which I can't quite make out, but can pretty much fill in the blanks by the following: she gets up, angrily walks towards the dressing room, then turns around and yells back, "If you're not sucking my pussy, I'm not buying you a beer!!"

The only problem here is that the place is far away. I'm not sure how long I'll stay...but in the meantime, it's fucking awesome.

New Club (Hopefully)

2008-11-28T15:03:00.000-08:00

Found an awesome new club. Dive-y, but friendly girls and a small stage with three normal poles and one more across connecting them at the top. Yay! Even the customers were cool - they tipped me well onstage.

So, here's the catch: my audition went well, and the manager said I got the job...but, I have to call on Sunday for my schedule, because the guy that hired me isn't the one that makes it. Plus I'm going out of town for the weekend, so won't be able to work till Monday...

Has that ever happened to anyone else? Cause it seems shady to me. In my old clubs, either you got the job and worked that day, or you didn't get the job. Thoughts?

P.S. Happy Thanksgiving.